


a helping hand

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, John Watson is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash or Gen, Sherlock's Violin, Soft Boys, Supportive John Watson, Tumblr Prompt, broken wrist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27124273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Prompted by anon on Tumblr:Whenever you get a chance it would be great to have a fic where Sherlock breaks his wrist and is more dismayed about being in a cast than John expected. Sherlock finally admits that it’s because he won’t be able to play his violin. He confides that playing is his way of expressing himself and working through his feelings. John finds a way to help him. Discussion of feelings please!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968538
Comments: 22
Kudos: 97





	a helping hand

**Author's Note:**

> I did it! 10 prompt fills in 10 days. Oof. I still have more to fill, and if you're waiting for your fill, I promise it'll happen (and please keep sending more if you don't mind waiting, either via my Tumblr or my email, which you can find a link to both in the series info for my Tumblr Prompt series). Now, I need to focus on the several other projects I have for this month! I may be in a little over my head with that I've taken on for October, so we'll see what I get done 😬

On the way back from the A&E, Sherlock is strangely quiet. He sits in the back of the cab with his forehead pressed to the window, cast-clad wrist in his lap, his eyes closed. His face looks pale and drawn, the corners of his eyes tight with pain, and John feels a pang in his chest. As the cabbie navigates the London traffic in fits and starts, John clears his throat and breaks the silence.

“It’s only a broken wrist,” he murmurs, trying for comfort. Sherlock doesn’t react, just stays with his forehead against the glass, and John adds, “Couple of months and you’ll be back out there.”

There is no response, and they sit in silence until the cab finally pulls up in front of 221B. Sherlock slips out without speaking, leaving John to pay the driver while he disappears inside. John follows quickly, the cab pulling away behind him with a mechanical purr before the door closes and muffles the sounds outside.

Upstairs, Sherlock curls into his armchair with a pensive expression on his face. He stares at the dark fireplace with fixed eyes, and John tilts his head toward it.

“Are you cold?” Sherlock just shakes his head, and John squints one eye shut in thought. “Hungry?” Another headshake. John fidgets in the ensuing silence before deciding to make tea. It’ll keep him busy, give Sherlock the space he seems to need and provide John with an excuse for getting something other than air into the detective.

The act of making the tea is soothing, the familiar motions helping to settle John’s restless mind. Behind him, in the sitting room and unmoving in his chair, Sherlock is a silent, sombre presence, impossible to forget or fail to notice.

When John returns with two mugs, he sets one carefully next to Sherlock’s uninjured side and settles into his chair. Sherlock sits in almost the same position as before, but now his violin rests on his lap. He plucks half-heartedly at the strings with a peculiar expression on his face.

John sips his tea, burns his tongue, and swallows back a curse. Placing the mug next to his chair, he leans back, studying Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock looks up without raising his head, watching John from beneath his long, dark lashes. “What?”

Hands laced together in his lap, John clears his throat. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock frowns, his eyes darting away. They halt on his cast, brows drawing together until he looks down at the violin. He plucks a string, and his face does something complicated, but he doesn’t answer John’s question.

Once nearly a minute has passed, John tries again. “Sherlock.”

Those eyes rise to him again, still shadowed by eyelashes and a slight frown. “I’m fine, John.”

John’s mouth flattens into a tense line and pulls to the side. “You’re obviously not.”

Another light pluck of a string, the sound wavering in the tense air. Sherlock’s lips twitch down at the corners. “I’m _fine,”_ he repeats, sounding anything but.

Heaving a sigh, John leans forward, clasps his hands between his knees, and ducks his head, trying to catch Sherlock’s eyes. They skitter away, and John sighs again. “Look at me,” he murmurs, frowning and earnest. Sherlock does, squinting hard at him as his gaze darts over John’s face. Holding his attention, John asks, “Talk to me?” He pauses and licks his lips, feeling a little twinge of helplessness in his chest before he adds, “Please?”

Sherlock’s breath rushes out of him in a gust, and he fidgets with the violin, his fingers restless. “It’s my wrist,” he finally mutters, scowling down at the polished wood in his lap. John tilts his head, still leaning forward.

“Does it hurt?”

“No… well, yes, but that’s not the problem.” Sherlock goes silent for a moment, his lips a hard line, his face tense, and his expression tight. Everything clears all at once, and he slumps in his chair with a defeated sigh. “I can’t play my violin, John.”

John frowns, processing the words as he sits inclined toward Sherlock. Tongue darting out to wet his dry lips, he nods slowly. “Okay.” Choosing his words with care, he continues, “It’s only for a couple of months, Sherlock. You don’t want to prolong the healing process.”

A low growl follows his statement, and Sherlock rakes unsteady fingers through his hair with a rough gesture. “I _know_ the medical necessity of the cast, John,” he snaps, his voice harsh and angry. John starts to lean back in surprise and catches himself at the last second.

“Okay, right. Sorry.” He squints one eye shut in thought. “You going to tell me what it’s about, then?” Another frustrated noise prompts him to add, “I’m not a mind reader, Sherlock. I need you to tell me what the problem is so I can help.”

After a moment of agitated quiet, Sherlock grimaces. “I need to play.” He doesn’t elaborate, and John swallows as he considers the words.

“Okay. Why?”

Sherlock’s fingers twist in his hair again, making the curls stick up and flatten. “It helps me think, John. Playing, it helps me…” he shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw, teeth clenching together and making a tendon stand out in his neck. Hesitating, John reaches out and touches light fingers to Sherlock’s knee. Tension ripples through Sherlock’s body before dispersing, and his shoulders drop from where they rose to his ears. “Feelings don’t come easily to me, John. I don’t know how to… they’re not—I can’t… I _need_ to play,” he finally manages, the words escaping on a belated breath.

“Alright.” John agrees, giving Sherlock’s knee a light squeeze before leaning back. “It helps when you’re thinking?”

“It’s more than that.” Sherlock waves a hand as if trying to pluck the words he needs from the air. “It… when my mind is too loud, too busy, too _full,_ playing helps me…” he makes a motion like gripping something in his palm before loosening his fingers and shaking his hand dismissively. “It helps me find the threads and loosen the knots.”

Understanding falls over John at Sherlock’s urgent voice. “Playing helps with the overstimulation.” Sherlock tilts his head in silent agreement and doesn’t speak. “Okay. Right.” Rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip, John taps a hand against his thigh. “Right. Well, we’ll have to find a way for you to play with the cast then, won’t we?”

Sherlock blinks, surprise flickering over his expression. “How?”

“We’ll figure something out,” John replies with solid confidence. Sherlock just stares at him with an avid look in his eyes, appearing almost breathless as John works the problem over in his head. Finally, he offers, “What if I did the strings and you moved the bow?” He glances at Sherlock’s cast. “You work the bow in your right hand, yeah?”

Nodding, still silent, Sherlock watches John stand with an intent expression. He lets John take the violin from his lap and accepts his hand when John offers it, pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Okay, you’ll have to help me,” John says, tongue caught between his teeth while he tries to position the instrument beneath Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock blinks down at him and finally helps, using his right hand to guide John in small adjustments until the placement is correct.

Once Sherlock seems pleased with the placement, John leans down and lifts the bow from the violin’s case, pressing it gently into Sherlock’s right hand. Confident Sherlock won’t drop the tool, John places his fingers on the violin’s neck and meets Sherlock’s bemused gaze.

“Tell me where to put my fingers.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, some fleeting emotion passing through them far too quickly for John to catch. He hesitates, and John offers an encouraging smile. Lashes fluttering in a half-blink, Sherlock swallows and dips his head in a quick nod.

“Put your index finger on the third string,” he instructs, eyes fixed on John’s hand as he obeys. “The ring finger goes a little over. No, not there. Yes, like that. Now, move the middle…”

Sherlock’s words wash over him, and John does his best to position his fingers under Sherlock’s tutelage. It’s far more complicated than he anticipated, and he bites at his bottom lip in focus.

Once his hand is in the right spot, John looks up at Sherlock’s face to find pale eyes fixed on his face. Offering a small smile, John waits. With their gazes locked, Sherlock lifts the bow and draws it over the strings. The sound isn’t quite right, and John winces. But Sherlock is already adjusting John’s fingers with sharp focus, muttering beneath his breath.

The next try is better, the note soft and sweet. With the sound still vibrating in the air, Sherlock teaches John how to shift into the next position, then the next. It’s slow going, with John making more mistakes than he gets right, but Sherlock is surprisingly patient. As they play, the creases on Sherlock’s brow yield and ease, leaving his face calm and smooth.

John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him more often than not and resists the urge to look up and meet them, keeping his attention on the unfamiliar movements of his hand.

By the end of an hour, they make it through the first forty seconds of Ode to Joy, something Sherlock assures John is a beginner piece, though John’s stinging fingers beg to differ.

“How do you do that without ripping off your fingerprints?” John asks, wincing as he prods at the reddened skin. Looking up from placing the violin in its case, Sherlock smirks.

“Calluses,” he explains, holding up a hand. John takes it in his own, turning it palm-up to study hardened skin on Sherlock’s fingers. He traces a fingertip over a thickened section on Sherlock’s index, and Sherlock shivers.

Finally, John looks up and meets his gaze. Sherlock stares down at him with a complicated expression and soft eyes. The sight steals away John’s breath for just a moment, returning it in a weak exhale when Sherlock speaks.

“John,” he murmurs, lashes fluttering in a series of quick blinks that John finds far too endearing, “thank you.”

A small smile on his lips, John presses his thumbs gently to Sherlock’s palm. “Anytime, Sherlock.”


End file.
